Brighton Pier
by afullmargin
Summary: A meeting at the Pier. And a pink plush duck.


**Notes:** First time posting something with this pairing, but I've been playing around with them a bit lately and comment fic is a nice playground for me.

**Prompt:** From comment_fic, the lyrics at the top of the story. "I Know You Know (Psych Theme)"

**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fictional parody in no way intended to infringe upon the rights of any individual or corporate entity. Any and all characters or celebrity personae belong to their rightful owners. Absolutely no money has or will be gained from this work. Please do not publicly link, repost or redistribute without letting me know first.

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><p><em>"I know, you know, that I'm not telling the truth<em>

_I know, you know, they just don't have any proof_

_Embrace the deception, Lean how to bend_

_You're worst inhibitions tend to psych you out in the end"-I Know You Know by The Friendly Indians_

He waited for nearly an hour on the pier, pacing the worn boards with his coat pulled tight around him against the night chill. It had occurred to him more than once on the train that agreeing to meet in Brighton after ten was a horrible idea; but he'd learned that when Mycroft Holmes sends a text it's not usually something to be ignored. It was early in the off season for Brighton Pier, but the funfair was still busy even at the late hour; the roar of the rollercoaster on its track nearly drown out the loud laugher and chatter at the beer gardens and he could hear the band that'd been playing packing up. He checked his mobile again, but there was no new message.

It had taken a few times around, but Lestrade had come to have a bit of an understanding with Mycroft – for their mutual benefit. He does what he's told, mostly, and turns an occasional blind eye or writes down something he knows aint exactly the truth and in turn, his life is made just a little bit easier in any number of ways. He was as much of a mystery as he brother, but for the most part less of a nuisance… better company too despite being about as trustworthy as drunken vicar. Of course, he was pretty sure that was what made it easier to engage in certain other activities – neither of them could treat it like some love affair when they didn't even know who the other was for sure.

At five of eleven, the detective inspector pocketed his phone and pulled up the hood of his coat to cover his ears as he headed down the pier toward the tollgate – it was a short walk to the station still and he might be able to catch the last train – but was unsurprised to see a familiar form hunched over a ring toss game not fifty yards from where he'd been told to wait. "How long've you been watching?" He asked casually.

Slowly, Mycroft turned to him and offered a minimal smile. "Not long, you looked pensive… I thought I might have time for a game."

"Right." Lestrade raised an eyebrow and picked up the last ring, tossing it easily around the top bottle.

Mycroft managed a slight laugh that would have sounded mocking to unfamiliar ears and said; "Well done, I believe we have won the… pink duck. We'll call him Rupert."

"Rupert?" Lestrade laughed, even as the large pink monstrosity of microfiber and fluff was thrust unceremoniously into his arms by the vendor. He let out a surprised sound of protest when Mycroft quickly snatched up his umbrella and then grasped him tightly by the elbow.

Mycroft tugged hard until his lover walked beside him back toward the noise of the funfair, eventually slowing their pace and dropping the tight grip to walk arm in arm. "Yes, I believe Rupert is in need of a bit of a favor, I'm afraid."

Lestrade regarded the large plush duck in his arm and then looked back to his companion; "A favor? For… Rupert?"

"Precisely." Mycroft stopped at a quiet stretch of railing on the farthest end of the pier; whispering when the rollercoaster had stopped to take on new riders. "A person of mutual interest is in need of a discreet police escort this Tuesday."

Lestrade waited until a lone stranger passed before answering; "I can't do Tuesday, I'll be providing security detail for an important auction."

"Indeed you will, our associate will also be in attendance." The corners of his mouth twitched slightly and before Lestrade could anticipate his action, he leaned in close and pressed a lingering kiss to his lips. After an awkwardly long moment, they heard a small clutch of teenagers laughing and muttering about 'old poofs'. Once the group had passed, he broke off the moment and let his hand linger where it had come to rest at Lestrade's collar; "You are not to make contact, simply remain along the east wall until the third lot has been purchased and follow him to his car at a distance – once the parcel our friend have been secured you may simply return to the auction as though you'd merely stretched your legs."

He sighed and shook his lead, subconsciously licking his lips after the unexpected kiss. "And does this associate have a name?"

Mycroft smiled and looked him in the eyes, "Mister Smith would prefer to keep his given name private. I'm sure you understand." He didn't wait for Lestrade to respond before once more hooking his arm on his lover's elbow and leading him back down the pier; "Mmm, I meant ask… have you considered a holiday? The Seychelles are lovely this time of year."

He chuckled under his breath; "Right, on my salary? I hate to break it to you, Mycroft… but not all of us get a bottomless bank account."

"Hardly." His smile didn't falter; "Perhaps a drink? I know you'd prefer a lager, but I've got brandy at home."

"One question before I decide." He offered; "Why'd you have me come all the way to Brighton to tell me this?"

There was a long silence as they continued past the tollgate before Mycroft replied; "I've been craving candy floss and a go at the rings. Besides, nobody here would recognize either of us."

Part of him had expected the invitation among the secrecy and he responded somewhat coyly; "Dunno, wha'd you think, mate?" He addressed the pink duck and paused a second as though awaiting an answer; "Rupert thinks you're full of it."

Unexpectedly, Mycroft genuinely laughed – the sound almost foreign to his own ears. "Well, Rupert, I believe if you're to be party to our meetings you'll need to understand that sometimes adults need to say things that aren't precisely accurate in order to conduct business." He patted the fluffy pink bastard on the head and then looked back to Lestrade; "Come, Gregory, I'll have a car take you in the morning."

God help him, he bent. As usual, unable to refuse the oddly charming offer regardless of how little it should appeal to him as a reasonable human person. That night, there was a fire at the Brighton Pier that started on the promenade near the booths and terminated just short of the rollercoaster, destroying several attractions in the process – and uncovering a small cache of smuggled wares that had been passing through the venue.

Tuesday afternoon, as Detective Inspector Lestrade escorted an Australian business man of little importance to his car with several antique plates in tow, a priceless document was replaced with a rather convincing fake in the fourth lot that would not be discovered until after it had been paid for. That evening, after his superiors unexpectedly apologized for dressing him down over the incident, a packet with a round trip fare and four days accommodation arrived with a short note.

_Embrace the deception, Gregory._

_Inhibitions frequently lead down the path of ruin._

_We shall rendezvous in Victoria._

_-M_


End file.
